


With Good Intentions (I'll hold Your Hand)

by Harleydoll



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: 2016 US Presidential Election, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Politics, Angry Erik, Anti-Mutant Sentiments (Marvel), Blood and Violence, Calm Down Erik, Charles Xavier has a Ph.D in Adorable, Charles is a Professor, Erik Has Feelings, Erik has Issues, F/M, Facebook, Inspired by Real Events, M/M, Mild Gore, Mixed Media, Murder, Mutant Politics, Mutant Pride, Mutant Registration, Mutant Rights, Mutants, Nazis, Protests, Punching Nazis, Sex at some point, Social Issues, Social Media, X-Men: Days of Future Past References, X-Men: First Class (2011), X-Men: First Class References, how was that not a tag yet, is this enough tags yet, probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-20 00:23:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11909331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harleydoll/pseuds/Harleydoll
Summary: Charles is a mutant rights activist and social media figure. Erik is a Nazi-hunting vigilante. Both want a better future for mutantkind.Based loosely on current events, modern AU where a new president is elected and violence against minorities is condoned and escalated across America. Mutants in particular are being targeted, both officially by the acts of the new government, and unofficially by hate crimes perpetrated on the streets.CW: Graphic depictions of violence, and descriptions and images of hate crimes, references to current events.





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> So. Clearly shit has hit the fan with regards to the current social and political climate in the U.S. this is meant to be a kind of alternate history, loosely based on real events, but mostly a modern twist on what the X-Men have already been dealing with for decades and decades. Also, I wanted to play around with social media because it has such a massive effect on the way we view and understand what's going on in our world. Anyway, I've talked enough, this is a prologue of sorts, lmk what you think!

 

 

Erik slips his phone into the pocket of his brown leather jacket and returns his attention to the switchblade hovering just between the eyes of the trembling older man before him.

“Apologies for the interruption,” Erik says, prowling towards the other man. He nods at the swastika tattooed on his victim's exposed forearm. “You won't be needing that anymore.”

He commands the switchblade to his open palm with a thought and begins to carve a thick, precise rectangle around the tattoo. The Nazi, not a man at all really, all of these human filth are the same, screams in pain and struggles violently against Erik's grip, but Erik reaches out with a tendril of power, reaching for the individual links of a silver chain around the filth's neck and yanks hard to cut him off.

“Now, now,” Erik completes his carving and angles the knife under the skin, peeling the neat rectangle of flesh away in clean, practised motions. “That wasn't so bad. Not compared to the things you've done.”

The filth is crying now, choking on wet, garbled sobs as well as the chain cutting mercilessly into his skin. Tears stream down his face, either from pain, fear, or both. Erik rolls his eyes. “For someone so comfortable with inflicting pain, you don't seem to have the stomach for it yourself. Here,” he says, shoving the chunk of flesh into his victim's mouth, “If you want it back that badly, it's yours.”

Erik turns on his heel and walks away, back towards the stuttering, artificial glow of the streetlamps, pausing at the mouth of the alleyway. “I believe this also belongs to you.”

He opens his hand and the switchblade flies back down the alley to bury itself into the throat of the Nazi, cutting off his strangled, gurgling protests. The only sound now is the click of Erik's shoes against the pavement as he emerges onto the street and heads for the nearest subway entrance, bloodied fingers jammed into the pockets of his jeans.

 

~~~~

 

 

“I said, I'm not interested.” The woman slides off of the bar stool, flipping platinum blonde curls over her shoulder as she grabs her purse and pushes past the moustached Texan that's been harassing her. The Texan grunts and watches the sway of her hips as she leaves the tiny pub, before getting up and following her out onto the street.

Erik watches all of this occur in his periphery while he finishes his beer and drops a crisp, folded $10 bill on the bar counter. He has to give the woman credit, he thinks, shrugging his leather jacket on over his fitted, black turtleneck. She did tell him twice and smack his wandering hands away from her thighs, but sometimes the filth just won't take a hint. He follows the signature of the ornamental star clasp on the Texan's bolo tie to, unsurprisingly, a narrow alley where the filth has cornered the younger woman.

“Get away from me!” The woman tries to duck under his arm, but his grips her wrists and pushes her up against the brick wall of the adjacent building.

“You heard the girl.” Erik produces a silver dollar from his pocket and flips it in the air, catching it in his palm. Heads. “Leave her be.” He can see the swastika tattoo on the side of the filth's neck, its stark black edges peeking over the collar of his sweat-stained button-down.

The Texan twists his head to glance at Erik, pupils blown out with drink and lust. “This isn't your concern, asshole.”

“I'm going to count to three,” Erik informs him affably. “And you're going to let her go.”

“Or what, tough guy?” the filth digs his nails into the girl's wrists, and she let's out a sharp gasp of pain.

“One.” The coin levitates just above Erik's open palm, and the Texan's eyes widen.

“The fuck...”

“Two.”

His grip on the blonde loosens, but he doesn't let go. “I ain't afraid of no mutie scum.”

“Three.” Erik's fingers twitch, sending the coin slicing into the victims forehead, driving it through his skull until it exits, stained with gore, from the back of his head. The filth drops to the ground, lifeless, an the young woman gapes at Erik in horror.

“What...what are you?”

“I'm the guy who just saved you life.”

“Just stay away from me!” Erik sighs as she snatches her purse off the ground and races towards the street, barely slowing down even when her heel gets lodged in a crack in the concrete and she has to wrench it free.

“Humans,” Erik mutters, shaking his head. “You are so very, very wrong about them, Xavier.”

  
~~~~

 

Charles Xavier types “go fuck yourself” into the comment bar, deletes it without posting, and slams the laptop shut. “I hate him,” he announces. “He drives me absolutely mad with all the radical extremist nonsense he posts on my page.”

“So ban him.” Raven hands him a steaming cup of Earl Grey and flops into the armchair across from him, her skin shifting lazily from pale, peachy toes to a pure cobalt blue.

“And why does he have to comment on everything I post?”

“Ban. Him.”

“Also, I'm almost entirely certain he's the Nazi hunting vigilante that's been so popular on social media lately.” Charles runs a hand through his thick chestnut hair, elbow resting on the arm of the sofa.

His sister rolls her catlike, yellow eyes at him. “Are you listening to me?”

“I'm not banning him, Raven.”

“Because you like him.”

“Because he's entitled to an opinion. And he has it in him to be the better man. We all do.”

“Don't deny it, Charles. I saw you stalking his profile.”

“I'd just like to know who I'm dealing with.” Charles takes a sip of his tea, wincing as the hot liquid burns his tongue. “It's not as though I can read his mind over the internet.”

“Are you inviting him to the Anti-MRA March?”

“I'll be inviting all of my followers.”

Raven smirks. “So that's a yes.”

“...Yes.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of forgot I was working on this but I have like 5 more chapters partially written and plotted out so I figured it's time to get the ball rolling, especially since this chapter in particular has been sitting on my computer for months >.>

Erik watches the television behind the bar intently, ignoring the pint of beer that's been placed in front of him. It's thin and American, and it doesn't even deserve to be called beer, but that doesn't matter. It's just a prop, an excuse to sit here and watch news coverage of the anti-MRA March at Washington Square Park. Xavier is there, of course, his voice muted on the screen as he commands the attention of the protesters before him. Most of the attendees probably have easily hidden mutations, as Erik can't imagine any humans actually showing up to this nonsense, but there are some scattered among the crowd with more than human features. 

Xavier is no doubt spouting his usual drivel about equality and acceptance for mutantkind, rallying the crowd as he preaches about peaceful coexistence in a utopian future. Still, standing there in a powder blue button-down and navy wool cardigan made for someone twice his age, Xavier is making an impression on the protesters, and even on those in the bar. Erik notices the way the bartender's eyes stray to the screen as he cleans the countertops, nodding in time with Xavier's passionate gestures. 

On the television, Xavier spreads his arms wide, cheeks flushed, his smile the perfect balance of naive hope and firm determination. But as the crowd starts to move, so does a group of five men at the other side of the bar, boasting obnoxiously about how someone needs to teach the “mutie scum” a lesson. Erik is hyper aware of their movements, from the rattle of a watch as its owner raises his hand to clap another on the back in agreement, to the sharp, offensive angles of the swastika belt buckle on another, to the precise, tempered steel of the hunting knives hidden in each of their jackets. 

The men are laughing as they leave, two of them flipping off the television while another drops a handful of crumpled bills onto their table. Erik is off his stool in one smooth motion and slipping out the back door, pushing his sunglasses over the bridge of his nose. He doesn't pay for his untouched pint.

“Hang on, gotta take a piss.” The shortest of the five veers into the alley next to the bar, already undoing his swastika belt buckle. 

“Jesus Christ, you do this every time,” Another, red-faced and balding, checks the time on his phone. A full minute passes, and he calls into the shadows again. “Hey come on, hurry it up!” No answer. “Jay?” He peers into the alley, wondering why the hell it's so dark here in the middle of the afternoon, and lets out a yelp of surprise when he's dragged into the narrow space by and invisible force, griping the open zipper of his jacket. 

The three remaining share an anxious glance before nodding at each other and creeping into the alley. “Guys?” one calls, withdrawing the hunting knife from its concealed pocket. The others follow suit without hesitation. “This isn't funny. We gotta get to the march.” 

“You're not going anywhere.” Erik steps into the stripe of sunlight that filters through the fire escape, casting diagonal bars of shadow across his face. The metal ladder above the first man's head shudders and drops with a resounding crash, cracking his skull and sending him sprawling to the ground. The other two run to his side, but Erik feels the sluggish, iron-laced pulse of his victim's blood and knows he'll be dead within minutes. Erik takes another step forward, blocking the rays of sun streaking across the body on the asphalt, and the remaining men scramble to their feet, ready to attack. 

“Back off, shithead.” The one on the left brandishes his knife, but his hand is trembling, uncertain. Erik narrows his eyes, and the man watches helplessly as his hand moves, seemingly of its own volition, and plunges the hunting knife into his own chest. His eyes bulge wide, mouth gaping as he gasps in pain as he takes a step backward. Erik watches, expressionless, as his prey stumbles over the body of is friend and collapses, fingers still wrapped around the hilt of the weapon. 

“Pathetic.” Erik tilts his head to one side, watching the last of the five drop his knife and back away from Erik, only to hit the cold, hard brick wall behind him. 

“Who else are you meeting?” Erik asks conversationally, fingers twitching at his side. The discarded knife flies obediently into his hand. 

“S-stay away from me, freak!” 

Erik slams the blade into the human's shoulder, eliciting a yelp of pain from the latter, and Erik brings a finger to his lips. “You scream, and you end up like your friends. Now. I won't ask a third time. Who else are you meeting?” 

“Ah—another group of guys.” 

“Nazi filth like you.” 

The filth in question nods, tears beginning to track down his cheeks. He's taking deep breaths, trying to block out the pain, and Erik wrenches the knife from his shoulder, enjoying the way the filth bites down had on his lower lip to keep from crying out. “Where?” 

“B-b-b-bar,” the other blubbers, “c-c-couple blocks down. There's uh, uh, swastika sticker in the window.” 

“Of course there is.” Erik takes a step back, letting the point of the knife hover between his victim's eyes. “What were you going to do with this?” his tone is still calm, conversational. 

“We-we were gonna cut 'em up. Teach 'em a lesson.” 

“Who?” 

“The muties.” The filth's voice isn't shaking anymore as he remembers the group's plans too assert their power. “Bunch 'a freaks don't deserve human rights. They ain't even human. 'Specially that professor guy. Thinks we can live together?' he spits on the ground. “I don't wanna be on the same planet as scum like hkk--” 

Erik crams the knife down his throat, melting the metal into a warm, viscous liquid that coats his prey's esophagus and suffocates as it hardens. “Funny,” Erik tells him. “I was just thinking the same about you.” 

~

The second group is easy to track down. Erik only has to follow the cloud of cigarette smoke and loud, drunken declarations of what exactly they plan to do to the mutants at the march. Erik decides to put the trash where it belongs, gripping zippers, belt buckles, and watches too toss them unceremoniously into the nearest dumpster when he's finished with them. He's closer to the park than he meant to be, and by now the protesters are coming full circle. Erik can see them approaching now, with Xavier, of course, at the lead, marching beside a girl in blue—no, Erik realizes as they get closer, she is blue, her black booty shorts and matching crop top revealing azure scales that traverse the length of her lithe, athletic form. He can see her blazing yellow eyes from here—and that's when Erik remembers that he's too close, close enough that he could be spotted by her, or worse, Xavier himself. 

He ducks into the nearest storefront, a small convenience store with a magazine rack by the window, and hides his face behind a month old issue of National Geographic, as he watches the procession pass him by. Xavier looks radiant and determined, and completely unaware of the Nazi scum that nearly destroyed his moment in the sun. For a brief moment, Erik thinks that if he had let it happen, Xavier could have seen the truth about humanity firsthand, the way that Erik had been trained to see it for most of his life. Watching him now, however, “Mutant Equality Now” sign held high above his head, Erik knows he did the right thing. Xavier might be naive and idealistic, but he has the power to bring people together. Maybe one day, when the filth have been stripped away and mutantkind can truly flourish, his ridiculous, infectious hope could—wait. Does Xavier see him? Shit. 

Erik turns away from the window, aware of those too blue eyes on his back as he retreats into an aisle of confectionery. Even now, out of view of the window, he cant shake the feeling that Xavier can still see exactly who he is behind the flimsy, stereotypical disguise of the magazine and sunglasses, behind the rows of candy separating the two of them. 

Erik hazards a glance over the shelves, feeling like a naughty schoolboy avoiding his teacher. He hears faint laughter and glances around the store, but there's no one around except for a very bored teenage cashier texting behind the counter. He shakes his head. He's just tired, and consequently becoming increasingly paranoid. Xavier and the blue-skinned girl are long past the store now, but Erik heads for the emergency exit at the back anyway. He still feels as though he's being watched, and he doesn't like it. He disarms the silent alarm with a thought and slips out into the cool April evening. 

~

 

“I'd say that went pretty well,” Raven announces. She takes a long drink from her Aquafina bottle, the plastic cracking under her fingers as she chugs over half its contents. “So thirsty, though. All that shouting.” She wipes her lower lip with the back of her hand. 

Charles is silent next to her on the bench, lost in thought, until his sister jabs him in the ribs with her elbow. “Ow!” 

“Don't you think it went well?” Raven leans back against the bench, letting her arms drop to her lap. “No violent disruptions or anything. Alex and Sean must be doing their job.” 

Charles nods absently, but doesn't answer her. He's still thinking about the images he picked up when they passed the shop down the street – a tangle of limbs lying in an alleyway, bodies piled in a heap in a dumpster, and a very suspicious pair of sunglasses peeking over the edge of a magazine. Charles had been careless; Erik had felt his presence and bolted immediately. Not that Charles could have followed him anyway, not in the middle of his own protest. Charles doesn't condone murder, let alone the things Erik must have done to the men prior to their deaths, but he can't deny that he enjoys having Erik nearby, watching over the march like some sort of avenging angel. 

“It wasn't the boys,” Charles murmurs.

“What are you talking about?” 

“The lack of anti-mutant backlash today. Sean and Alex had nothing to do with it.” 

“Then maybe people are actually starting to listen,” Raven replies. 

“It was Erik.” Raven rolls her eyes, but Charles insists. “I mean it, Raven. He was there, in one of the shops we passed. I picked up his thoughts, and I saw what he did to the men planning to disrupt the March.” 

“So you saw him kill them.” 

“Well, yes, but--” 

“Charles, you said yourself, he's a murderer,” Raven interrupts. “How is any of this okay?” 

“You didn't feel the hope in his mind.” Charles leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “He's not with us, not yet, anyway, but he knows that this is important, and that's a start.” 

“You've got a serial murderer watching your back, Charles.” Charles stares at her, and Raven shrugs in response. “If it gets out that you two are connected, all of your work goes down the drain. You have to know that.” 

“I know that he's changing, that he has it in him to be better. We want the same thing.” 

“Mutant superiority?” 

“Mutant equality.” 

“God, Charles, it's like you see the entire world through rose-coloured glasses.” 

“And what's wrong with that?” The corner of his mouth quirks up into a smile. 

Raven stands and stretches her arms above her head. “We should catch up with the others,” she says, brusquely changing the subject. “You know, your non-lethal security?” 

“There is good in him, Raven. I've seen it.” Charles stands as well and follows her back towards the open, grassy expanse where mutants and humans are milling about and talking amongst each other, as if this were an everyday occurrence. If only it were this easy ll the time, Charles thinks. “If he could see this, be a part of it...” 

“He'd quit Nazi hunting and become a pacifist?”

“We'll see,” Charles says, almost to himself. “We'll see.” 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I'm being honest, I've put far more research into this fic than is really necessary. It's not even the writing that takes this long, its the sorting through Twitters, news articles and videos deciding what to use, what not to use, how much really needs to be edited because America is already enough of a shitshow (sorry not sorry) that I only have to add a couple of words here and there to include mutants. I've already put a content warning on this, and frankly, we've all read and watched these events unfold in real time, so I won't bother here. Oh, and I didn't want to use a certain president's name in here so I used the one from X2: X-Men United. The secretary and senator mentioned are real, though (did I mention I put too much research into this?).

 

Erik clicks on the link in Charles' post, scrolling through reports that although the tests failed, American remains vigilant, etcetera. This is not the war that he is here to fight, but it is drawing his attention. The President has been antagonizing North Korea almost daily through his boorish, bullying tweets, and only a few days ago, Secretary Tillerson had been sent to garner China's support against threats of nuclear violence. 

_That went over well_ , Erik thinks, and smirks. There's a link to a video of the conversation, all diplomacy and handshakes, and Erik idly moves to take a sip of his coffee as he hits play. 

 

Erik freezes, the mug halfway to his lips, certain that his eyes have deceived him. His thumb slams down onto the pause button and he slides the playback timer back three seconds, freezing it on a close up of Tillerson. Behind him, grainy and just out of focus, is the face of a man that Erik knows all too well. 

“Shaw.” His grip tightens and he screencaps the image, then shares Charles' link to his own timeline to watch again. How in the hell did Sebastian Shaw manage to sink his claws into the highest levels of government? Erik's upper lip curls. The same way he'd gotten hold of Erik, obviously – Shaw had always been a smooth talker, and the fact that he has a nearly omega level telepath on his payroll doesn't hurt. Erik hits play again, from the beginning, and watches right to the end, when Tillerson and Shaw each shake hands with President Xi Jinping, thanking him for his continued support and promising future meetings to discuss global economic and trade policies. 

Erik is now gripping the phone so hard that his knuckles are turning white. After the video ends, he returns to the original article, scanning for something, anything—there. Secretary Rex Tillerson and political aide John Schmidt will return to the Presidential Palace in two days to discuss economic relations, as well as China's recent actions regarding the acquisition of islands in the South China Sea. 

John Schmidt. Erik has seen that name before. He dumps the last of his now lukewarm coffee down the drain and leans against the counter of the kitchenette as he opens Twitter, impatiently scrolling back through a month's worth of presidential tweets until he finds what he is looking for. 

 

Erik stares at the screen for a long moment before continuing on, swiping through text as far back as the presidential campaign. Sure enough, Shaw is in the background of multiple photos, lurking in corners, partially turned away from cameras, whispering in McKenna's ear. His false name pops up periodically in McKenna's tweets, referencing him as a campaign advisor, personal assistant, and later, presidential aide. At this point, Erik is less surprised by Shaw's presence than he is by his own inability to notice it sooner. He has been distracted lately, with the influx of homo sapien supremacists, and, Erik is loathe to admit, by one Charles Xavier. 

Erik tosses his phone onto the queen size bed that takes up most of the small hotel room, and heads into the equally small bathroom. He needs a shower, and he needs to stop constantly checking his Facebook for Xavier's updates. If Shaw is in China, chances are his pet telepath is taking care of things in Washington, leaving the Hellfire Club in the hands of one of his lower caste minions. He's avoided that place like the plague for years, but now might be the perfect time for a walk down memory lane. 

~

The Hellfire Club mansion is exactly as Erik remembers it – a looming, Victorian monstrosity bordered by a velvet roped line of middle class, new money hopefuls waiting for a chance to enter. Erik strides past them, ignoring their envious, judging stares as he adjusts the satin lapel of his Armani suit jacket and approaches the massive double doors. Angel Dust is on duty tonight, an engineered mutate from up north that Shaw recruited on a whim after Erik's time. Still, she recognizes him on sight and her eyes widen, but she quickly recovers and pops a match between her teeth. 

“Welcome home, Lehnsherr,” she says coolly, crossing her arms over her corset, more tactical than ornamental. “What brings you crawling back to your owner's knee?” 

“Save it for someone who cares,” Erik crooks a finger, and the steel boning in her corset begins to contract. Angel Dust's breath catches, and the match drops from her lips. “Who's holding court tonight?” 

“Shaw will have your head for this--” her voice cuts out as the boning contracts further. Erik takes an amicable step closer. 

“You truly think your life is worth more than mine to him?” He smiles faintly, as though amused by some private joke. “I won't ask again.” 

“Janos,” Angel Dust rasps. “And....Azazel.” 

Erik releases her and her shoulders sag in relief. “There. Was that so difficult?” He leaves Angel Dust gasping for air and, with a slight curve of his wrist, commands the doors to open for him. 

A decadent, red velvet staircase leads down into an even more decadent den of iniquity, its tables populated by the rich and infamous seeking pleasure in all of its forms. This level, Erik knows, is all about the luxurious dinner party atmosphere, and he spots more than a few politicians and pop stars being attended by servers in equal parts leather and lace. None of these people are aware of the mutants that run this high class establishment, and if they were, Erik suspects they'd incite a riot. 

No one gives Erik a second glance as he makes his way across the room, politely refusing the advances of the women in corsets and thigh highs touching his arm, trying to flirt their way towards decent tips. He spots Janos just a few feet away from him, deep in conversation with the Senator James Butler, whose deep baritone carries the words “Mutant Registration Act” effortlessly to Erik's ears. By contrast, Janos' voice is low and sonorous, with a muted quality almost sounds as though the listener is underwater. He's wearing a slate grey suit, as always, dark, shoulder length hair styled back in perfect waves that don't budge even as he startles at Erik's approach. He hastily makes his apologies to the senator and steps away, his eyes flitting everywhere except to Erik. 

“Janos,” Erik greets him cordially, and without malice. After all, Janos was never a part of the horrific things Shaw did to Erik in the depths of this place. He was merely there, silent and watchful, under the same spell as the rest of Shaw's followers. 

“What are you doing here?” Janos hisses, his gaze still darting from table to table. He'd always been paranoid, Erik knew, terrible with secrets and with high stress situations. Shaw only kept him around for his power, and for his quiet charisma that kept the public circles of the Club pacified and running like clockwork. “Shaw isn't here.” 

“I am aware,” Erik answers. “I know where he's been, and where he is right now. What I need to know,” he continued, leaning in close to Janos' ear, “is where he's going.” 

Janos flinches away from him and nods his chin towards a door marked “Employees Only”. “Perhaps we should take this somewhere more private?” 

He phrases it as a question, though it wasn't meant as such. Erik only shakes his head. “I would prefer to do this out in the open. Where Azazel can't interfere.” Erik holds his hands out, palms up. “Look, just answer the question, and I'll be on my way. What's Shaw's next move?” 

“I don't know.” 

“Don't you?” Erik glances at the booth adjacent to them, where Senator Butler has insinuated himself with another minor politician and a woman in a black, lace trimmed corset. The woman is perched on the senator's lap, feeding him bites of chocolate cake with a tiny dessert fork. “Last chance, or your friend there chokes on his fork. It'll melt in his mouth as easily as that cake, coating his windpipe and suffocating him until--” 

“Virginia!” Janos blurts out, barely above a whisper. “There's a rally in Virginia.” 

“And Shaw will be there?” 

“No. But Emma will.” 

Erik smiles, all teeth and no humour. “There, now, was that so difficult?”

Janos glares at him. “You're a monster.” 

Erik shrugs. “Perhaps. But you're the one working for my creator.” 

~

 

It's not a lie, Charles thinks as he types his response to Erik's comment. He hasn't asked anyone to risk their lives. But when Raven and the boys heard the news about the upcoming rally, Hank had shown an unusual amount of prescience, normally exhibited only within the confines of his lab, and run straight to the hangar to prepare the Blackbird. Even Sean, whose head is generally in the clouds, is already in his uniform and ready to go while Raven and Alex review the most recent information for the event. 

“They're gathering tonight, Charles,” Raven tells him, tapping a fingernail against the laptop screen before them. “It's scheduled for tomorrow, but there's something happening tonight, too, and we need to be there.” 

Charles nods. “You can't go like that, though.” 

Raven glaces down at herself, and the navy and yellow jumpsuit she's wearing. It's nearly identical to the ones Sean and Alex are wearing. “Like what?” 

“Blue.” 

Raven rolls her eyes. “What happened to mutant and proud, Charles?” 

Charles closes the laptop and follows Raven downstairs to the makeshift hangar that Hank has constructed. It's just large enough for the small, sleek black jet, which Hank also built from scratch, and will open out to a discreet corner of Charles' massive estate once they take off. Sean and Alex are not far behind, joking and punching each other in the arm. It's times like this that Charles realizes exactly how young they are. 

“You were front and centre at the anti-MRA rally less than two weeks ago,” Charles reminds her. “You can't be seen now. Someone will undoubtedly make the connection.” 

Raven frowns, but shifts into sun-kissed skin and golden blonde hair, gathered into a bun at the base of her neck. “Better?” 

“For the time being, yes.” 

Hank is already inside the plane when the four of them climb the steps into the plane, pushing his glasses up on his nose as he flips switches and monitors various displays. 

“We're good to go, Professor,” he says without looking up. He's in the same navy and yellow jumpsuit as the others for solidarity's sake, but chances are he won't leave the jet when they touch down. He's not much for hand to hand combat, despite his enhanced strength and agility, and, if he wasn't needed to pilot the jet, would largely prefer to remain in his lab at the mansion. Charles knows all of this, of course, but it is his hope that Hank will rise to the occasion and help Raven and the boys if things get out of hand. 

Alex and Sean strap in, shoulder to shoulder, still joking with each other as Charles and Raven sit down across from them. Sean has to maneuver the striped “wings” of his suit a little, struggling for a moment to keep them, and by proxy his elbows, until Alex reaches over and clicks the harness-like seatbelt into place. Alex does the same for his own, blonde hair falling into his eyes as he tugs the straps over the silver circular panel on his chest. 

“So anyway,” Sean continues, settling into his seat, “I walk up to her, and I say, you know, you like fish, I like fish--” 

“Tell me you didn't,” Alex interrupts with a grin. “Dude, you have to come up with some better pick up lines.” 

Raven laughs. “Seriously. The whole 'let's get a bite sometime and talk about it' bit is getting real old, real fast.” 

Sean's face falls. “Come on, guys, I'm trying here.” 

Alex pats his thigh and offers him a friendly smile. “After this weekend, we'll go out. You and me, bro. I'll teach you a thing or two about picking up girls.” 

Raven raises an eyebrow at that one. “This I want to see.” 

Charles tunes in and out of the conversation as they take off, more concerned with what's waiting for them in Virginia than Sean's love life. Why are they gathering tonight? What are they planning? There's a chance he's worrying over nothing. This could just be a meeting to set up for the morning, to put up barriers, to coordinate with local law enforcement. And yet, all of this feels horribly wrong. It doesn't help that Unite the Right has joined forces with Friends of Humanity, turning this into a rally for some perfect Aryan (and undeniably human) race. It doesn't help that Unite the Right insists that they are not Nazis, yet they march for the same reasons and wear the same swastika on their arms. And it definitely doesn't help that Charles has no idea what the bloody hell Erik is planning to do tonight. 

“Charles.” Raven's voice snaps him out of his thoughts, strained and cracking on the second syllable of his name.

“What's wrong?” 

She says nothing, only points out the window at the scene below. Charles' eyes widen as he takes in the hundreds of tiny flames, torches held high in perfect, military-style columns of what Charles can only assume are Alt-Right members. 

“Good lord,” he breathes. 

“What do we do?” When Charles doesn't answer, still transfixed by the torches, Raven puts a hand on his arm. “Charles.” 

Charles gathers himself and faces front again. “Yes. Alright. I'll be the first to admit that this is...a little terrifying.” 

“A little?” Sean swallowed hard. “They're literal Nazis. They look like they're ready to slaughter anyone that isn't them.” 

“Well then,” Charles said, looking from Sean, to Alex, to his sister. “We'd best make sure that doesn't happen.” 

 

There are no police at the university. At least, not until several long minutes after Sean, Alex and Raven are wading through the crowd of protesters, ignoring chants of “White lives matter” and “human and proud” to put and end to the fights that are already breaking out across the campus. By the time the police arrive, Hank has kicked off his shoes and joined the fray, his massive, prehensile feet allowing him to maneuver through the masses and grab multiple protesters at once. Charles, meanwhile, remains on the jet, unable to show his face for fear of harming his own cause. He's doing his part, though, spreading a psychic net of peace and calm, and slowly but surely de-escalating the violence that Raven and the boys haven't been able to reach. They can't be everywhere at once, after all. 

When emergency services arrive, Raven signals Sean, who nudges his arm to get his attention. They're back to back, between the counter protesters surrounding the Thomas Jefferson monument at the centre of the field, and the Friends of Humanity members converging on them. At the sound of sirens in the distance, the FoH pause, most still chanting, but some begin to murmur amongst themselves, uncertain about their fates should they be here when the real law enforcement intervenes. 

“Alex, we gotta go,” Sean says, keeping one eye on the students in front of the monument. 

Alex shakes his head. “They'll attack those kids the second we move of their way.” 

“Cops are coming,” Sean insists. “They'll be fine. Come on.” 

Alex hesitates, then, impulsively, aims his chest plate at the ground and blasts a jagged line in the grass, forming a wall of flames about two and a half feet tall. “That'll deter them, for a minute or two,” he says. “Let's go.” 

Hank is already back at the Blackbird waiting for them, with Raven in tow. “What took you so long?” 

“Just doing our job,” Alex replies, climbing the steps into the plane after Sean. He glances back at the chaos they've left behind, many protesters subdued but still more resisting the police that have finally arrived. “I just wish we could do more.” 

“As do I, Alex.” Charles is waiting for them inside, head in his hands. “But there are simply too many of them.” 

“Are you okay?” Raven is at his side in an instant, placing a hand on his shoulder. Charles glanced up at her, his complexion ashen. 

“I...I did what I could,” he answers. “We all did.” 

“And now we all need some rest.” Raven glances up at her teammates. “I have a feeling it'll be even worse tomorrow.”


End file.
